SPIRIT OF THE BEEHIVE at The Handlebar

Guess where I went last Tuesday? If you guessed The Handlebar again to see another show because you read the title of this post, then you would be correct, and you should be proud of yourself.

The Handlebar is undoubtedly my new favorite local venue (by default, although it does hold its own over many others I’ve visited in far more saturated areas). Pensacola is very lucky to have this place. In the words of Adam Davis, the bassist for the first opening band of the evening, “the scene here is good, and The Handlebar is saving it.”

I first came across this show as I was scrolling aimlessly through The Handlebar’s upcoming events, and these band names stood out to me, but not because they’re both in all-caps. I think society moved very quickly past the point at which stylized band names came to life and danced in front of us solely because they’re apparently being screamed through whatever medium promoters have chosen to reach us.

No, SPIRIT OF THE BEEHIVE and MSPAINT (see? Nothing) did not stand out to me for that reason. Instead, I thought for sure I had heard of both groups before. The monikers had such a comfortable ring to them, and sure enough, when I sought out their music, certain songs from each artist sounded vaguely familiar. But no matter how forcefully I willed my subconscious to lasso the exact sources, I came up short, and eventually gave up. The end.

Gotcha! But I do apologize for the deception—it won’t happen again. Thanks for the second chance by the way. As you might have guessed (because you are such a smart cookie) I paid the $15+fees admission, but I completely forgot about the concert until the day of, while on a wild goose chase for an official, venue-produced flyer from the last show I reviewed, but instead of not finding wild geese, I didn’t find the venue’s flyer. It didn’t exist, and therein lies a perfect example of the wild goose chase idiom. Now you know. No need to thank me. You’re welcome.

Instead, I found the digital flyer I had seen nine days prior for—you guessed it—SPIRIT OF THE BEEHIVE supported by MSPAINT. And I was very glad I had seen it. Otherwise, I would’ve missed out on a truly fantastic show—an all-around sonic spectacular, spotlighting a slew of sensational southern sounds. Well, SPIRIT OF THE BEEHIVE is actually from Philadelphia, but they were in the south that night, so it works.

Roughly 30 minutes to showtime, I checked the outdoor temperature on my phone, and figured it would be a joy to have a walk in just 81 degrees Fahrenheit of fresh air, so I put on my best pair of denim shorts and a large t-shirt (plus underwear, socks, shoes, and a belt—I’m not a barbarian), and hit the bricks. Instant regret. It was so humid outside I was having trouble taking a breath, staying dry, or moving, really—I might as well have swam there—and the feels-like temperature is what really matters here anyway. It felt like a solid 97, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get used the intensity of Florida weather. But I’ll stop complaining now and fast forward to my arrival at The Handlebar.

The man scanning tickets and checking IDs greeted me at the door with a strikingly sincere, “thanks for coming tonight, I hope you enjoy it.” His subtle warmth was so genuine, I actually thought for a minute that perhaps I would be only one of a very small number of attendees—an assumption almost immediately disproven when I rounded the corner to a full house. The Handlebar had sold out.

Before you defenestrate your reading source, strip naked, do a 720, douse yourself in gasoline, and set yourself on fire in pure disbelief, take a chill pill. The Handlebar caps out at 160 people, so it doesn’t take much to fill it out, but I hadn’t seen it quite so packed before, so I expressed a reaction equivalent to about one hundredth of the surely devastating act I just talked you out of. Let’s just say I was impressed.

I had been having such a wonderful time lately writing largely critical reviews that I’d become wary of publishing anything positive—I was worried I wouldn’t have nearly as much to say, and good reviews simply have less room for the silliness I have come to so enjoy. But not all shows can be lame.

I entered probably a quarter of the way through a rather moving performance by a mystery band I soon came to know as The Juice Is Okay. The first thing I noticed as I walked in was an obvious variation and tightness radiating from the amps. Actually, the very first thing I noticed was the super stinky guy I accidentally stood next to in the back, but that was an easy fix. I just stood somewhere else.

With the night’s first obstacle out of the way, I allowed myself to be swept into the dustpan of the mischievously funky scene unfolding before my eyes: playful, bright bass lines peppered a foreground of sparkly noodling on guitar, of which there were many—three guitars stood strong in a unified front, with bass on the far left, all defended from behind by mercilessly metronomic drums.

At the completion of the first song I heard, I withstood a wave of minor regret for intentionally rolling in late (I’m told I missed a flute appearance), but as all waves do, it broke and moved past me. In that moment, I was just happy to be there. As The Juice navigated their set, I quickly picked up on the complexity of each chart, with varying time signatures and styles, both from song to song, and within each piece itself. And the audience was hooked—although only a sea of head nods, the clear consensus was that The Juice Is Okay knew exactly what they were doing.

After I had been standing in the crowded heat for a number of songs, Adam (the bassist I mentioned earlier) took a couple of confident steps forward at the completion of a song, and addressed the audience with two jokes while the rest of the band grooved behind him. But his presence was less elementary school talent show and more stand-up comedian, in that there was an actual back-and-forth between him and the crowd during his lighthearted interlude. Case in point: I am choosing against repeating the jokes here, because they would simply fall flat in written form. I had a brief word with Adam after the show, who spoke on the importance of the band engaging with their audience: “Interaction is definitely at the foundation of what we’re doing as a band, especially whenever the crowd is more energetic.” After having the rare opportunity to see them in concert, I completely understand this sentiment.

Donning my critic hat for just a moment (it’s multicolored like a beach ball and has a propellor on top), although TJIO put on an endearing and technically engaging performance, there was not one song in particular that really grabbed me by the shirt collar and messed me about, more so than the rest of them. What stood out to me most was not so much any of the music itself, but rather how it was performed.

Once The Juice had thanked the full house and began packing up to exit the stage, I joined the masses out to the equally-as-steamy courtyard, following behind a shiny man (shiny on account of all the sweat) who was wearing nothing but overalls. I then accepted a flyer for a show happening elsewhere I had no intention of attending, circled back inside to order a drink from the bar, and situated myself in a better vantage point for the billed openers, MSPAINT.

To quickly quote MSPAINT’s bio, “It’s exceedingly rare to hear something truly original.” They are of course referring to themselves, but only reveal so after a bit more flowery buildup. I will allow that MSPAINT does have an “original” sound, but so does every other band who writes their own music without completely ripping off another artist. I cannot think of a single group—MSPAINT included—for which there aren’t readily a few others to at least loosely compare their sound to. MSPAINT further describes their music as “something that maybe we don’t even have words for just yet,” which I just see as a space-filler, and a total copout. And sure enough, only a few sentences later, they use words to describe their sound. They claim elements of hardcore, hip hop, and synth-punk, which I believe to be a fair self-assessment, and they are also very proud of their lack of guitars, rendering them a satiating foil to both TJIO and SPIRIT OF THE BEEHIVE. 

After my guitarless discovery, I dreadfully imagined a large projector screen behind them on stage, which to me always screams, “We’re worried we aren’t enough for people to look at.” I understand that especially in the case of some rappers—where the concert involves only two people on stage—a large screen takes up space, and is intended to add to the set design. But more often than not it takes away from the performance, and the musicians find themselves performing to a room of bored toddlers, mindlessly staring past their parents into the silent TVs mounted to the cluttered walls of Red Robin. A big screen at a concert is also a bit of an insult to the members of the audience, as if to suggest we humble punters lack the attention span for anything less than four performers on stage.

But I’m ranting. I was relieved to see there was no such projector screen, and that if MSAINT have anything to worry about in terms of audience engagement, it is that there might even be too much to look at—a good problem to have, and arguably not a problem at all. The band launched into their first song with so much energy that the crowd could barely keep up, still stuck in a trance of bobbing and swaying, perhaps a product of group-think that an opening band doesn’t deserve any more. By the next song however, everyone had caught on, and a pit opened up to the right of the stage.

As MSPAINT worked their way through the rest of their set, the room came to a boil, and the vocalist stalked the stage with a well rehearsed Kubrick Stare, looking through and beyond the audience with a curious ferocity. “Burn all the flags and the symbols of man! Burn all the flags and the symbols of man! Burn all the flags and the symbols of man!” he shouted over and over while the crowd chanted along. Some of their lyrics—and the vocalist’s method of delivery—immediately called to mind Rage Against The Machine, whose repertoire also includes flashes of punk and hip hop.

The sound of Rage Against The Machine however is typically characterized by the massive, weighty guitar tooling of Tom Morello (who, incidentally, is a massive tool), which sounds closer to a police siren than a musical instrument. Do not be mistaken: I like Rage Against The Machine, and I love Audioslave, but this review is not about them. The “original” sound of MSPAINT is like Rage Against The Machine, but instead of dominating guitar, it’s dominating synth, which also pulls their sound further in another direction. Read: this is cool! Overall, MSPAINT put on an enthralling production and were absolutely dripping in sweat as they left the stage, which was likely only 30% a fault of the climate.

I turned around for yet another drink, but found my path blocked by an impressively short man with a mullet, enjoying a refreshment at the bar. I took a step back and realized he was only an average sized man slouching in his chair, which is obviously disappointing, but he still had the mullet, which must count for something.

SPIRIT OF THE BEEHIVE moments before captivating their audience

After quickly and habitually configuring the stage for their run at the action, SPIRIT OF THE BEEHIVE drifted numbly into a buzzing haze of cartoon clouds—a welcome comedown from the hysteria of MSPAINT, but one that was not without its fair share of thrill. 

Once again hobbling around on my Spotify bio crutch, SPIRIT’s writeup cites intricacy, contradiction, and unpredictability as sonic descriptors, and I only wish they hadn’t split my head open like Monty Python and sucked all those words up through a silly straw before I had a chance to write them first. But no, I am only using them too (after altering their suffixes to fit here) because I wholeheartedly agree.

The next song was instantly contrasting, earsplitting noise that jolted the ocean of nodding skulls back to life. Their set continued in a similar fashion, although with less stark differences from song to song—the setlist was very well crafted, and the mob’s enchantment was all the evidence anyone needed. I ducked out after a few songs, in search of an interview to supplement this writeup, and gladly chatted with Adam (TJIO) for several minutes before returning to the crowd in the last few songs.

The show ended with a big, impromptu social, as many solid concerts do, and I was happy to twist around the circles of conversations dotting the floor on my way out of the building. My walk home was just as humid, and only perhaps a degree cooler (if at all) than my journey there, but I didn’t mind so much—it had been a very worthwhile few hours (but I was also a lot cooler after taking my shirt off).

I wrote much of this review on the day immediately following the concert, seated in Pensacola’s finest coffee shop, and the place was absolutely abuzz with chatter surrounding the previous night’s show—one of the baristas was even wearing a SPIRIT OF THE BEEHIVE shirt. I’d like to briefly take credit for the triple entendre I just created with that “abuzz” pun (coffee, bees (beehive), and audible humming), and now I will move on to the next part of the sentence: this three-pronged performance was the place to be that night, no question.

I also overheard as one local who had been in attendance surprisedly recounted the large number of people he hadn’t recognized there, which on an unrelated topic shows me just how tight-knit this particular local music scene is. I then peculiarly began to recall all the floating faces I too had vaguely recognized that night—strange. But this opinionated (though not necessarily in a bad way) fan proudly made one more valuable and raving observation before I stopped listening and got back to work: “there were elements of every band in every band.” Well said, stranger. I couldn’t have said it better myself.